


The Inevitability Of Death

by crabcakebenedict



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Violence, Dean Winchester Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Male-Female Friendship, Multi, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Other, Reader-Insert, References to Supernatural (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-23 14:47:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9661988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crabcakebenedict/pseuds/crabcakebenedict
Summary: Events in your childhood mold you into a hunter, working alongside your Uncle who's been your hero ever since. When tragedy strikes your life again, you're forced to call Bobby who comes to your aid with Winchesters in tow. With the creature still at large and a hunters funeral to attend, you join up with them to put your Uncle to rest and get revenge on the thing that put him there. Assuming you've worn your welcome after all is done, you go to leave, but Sam stops you. The next hunt you take on with the brothers turns your world upside -- again.





	1. An End Has A Start

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to provide a bit of backstory so you may find it a bit slow going, but I promise the Winchesters will be in it in a chapter or 2 and there will be tons of feels from there on out <3  
> Please be nice to me (/ω＼)

_August 27th, 1986_

"Get going, that's the last warning." Your mother gave a swat at your bottom, and you giggled, running alongside your brother Ethan to get out of the line of fire. Two sets of small feet crashed the stairs, galloping to the top towards an invisible finish line. Your brother beat you as he usually did, being older and taller gave him that advantage. Both of you pushed into the bathroom, fighting over the tap as you brushed your teeth. A sound, one very similar to that of a glass being shattered cause you both to stop mid-brush, toothbrushes falling away unnoticed.

"Shut up, butt face." Ethan slapped a sweaty hand over your mouth. He tilted his head to the side, eyes narrowing. You tried to speak against his palm, but his warning stare made you shrivel and silence. In a split second decision, he grabbed your hand and dragged you behind him to the edge of the stairs, you stumbling over your feet. The living room was in sight, and you got there just in time to witness a large cloud of murky pollution wretch your dad's jaw open and cram itself down his throat. The skin around his neck swelled, entire body jolting fiercely until every last vapor was deep within his chest.

Your mother withdrew, eyes wide, hands trembling. “Howard?” her voice was small and tenuous. Your father stood motionless for a moment; chin tucked against his chest before it snapped up, his eyes pitch black.

"Hello bitch." He hissed. It sounded disembodied to you, that was not your father. That deep, raw voice was not your dad. Then the man wrapped a thick hand around your mother's throat. She clawed frantically at his fingers, unable to pry them from her skin, blue eyes wide in terror. The struggle only made him tighten his grip, a gravelly laugh filling the room.

Your brother yanked your wrist, pulling you from the banister, spinning you to look at him. He put his hands firmly on your tiny shoulders, eyes tunneling directly into yours. Dread was slowing filling the spaces in your chest, crushing your organs, making it hard for your lungs to expand. "Listen to me, go hide in your closet. Don't make a sound. Don't come out for anyone."

It felt as if your heart could break free of your ribs. You gave a fearful nod, and your brother shoved you backward toward safety. Little feet took you as fast as possible to the deepest darkest confines of your closet. Hanging dresses and sweaters protected you, your back pressing against the furthest wall so tightly, you imagined passing through it. Hot tears rolled from your brown hues, knees tucked into your chest. This whole situation had to be a nightmare; it had to be. Maybe if you held yourself tighter, it would all disappear. Maybe it would all reset itself.

Before Ethan took off to his room to hide, he chanced a look over the banister. Your dad unhinged his fingers, your mom crumpling to the floor with an audible thump. She was unmoving. Howard gave her a boot and released another sinister laugh before snapping his head towards the juvenile frozen stiff at the top of the stairs. Whatever was in your dad made him superhumanly fast, long-legged strides climbing the stairs, two at a time. Ethan hardly had time to make it to his room, one foot in the doorway when a hand gripped at him.

"Where ya going, ya little shit? Daddy wants to play with you." The voice was guttural.

Ethan was ripped backward from the doorway, the man he once knew as his father using the collar of his shirt to capture and toss him down the hall effortlessly. Ethan slid across the floor like a puck on the ice, knocking a framed family photo off the wall as he collided with its base. Moving smoothly and swiftly, his father started to kick him like a soccer ball, howling laughter each time he landed a hard blow. The torment was delicious, this thing was thoroughly enjoying this, and your brother was breaking.

You could hear Ethan's wailing; your hands clamped firmly over your mouth as a reminder not to make noise and tears continued to rush your cheeks, the tiniest squeaks resounding in the darkness. When you stopped hearing any sound from your brother is when you got truly terrified. From the safety of the dark closet, you could hear your father calling your name, honeying it up for you, urging you to come out of safety.

"Y/N? Baby? It's Daddy, come here, it's okay. Come to daddy, sweetheart." The thing piloted your dad slowly towards the closet. You could hear nothing but the sound of blood rushing around in your head, your eyes permanently fixed wide on the door. Your young mind knew what death meant but hadn't fully grasp its entire concept. Something bad was about to happen to you, that's all you knew.

\----- 

"Shiras!" A booming voice reverberated up the stairs, a crashing noise as a booted foot splintered the locked door to the house.  
Shiras' head snapped suddenly at the intrusion. It took him seconds to know it was Bruce. He sniffed at the air like a dog, lips twisting and turning sickly, a sense of satisfaction glazing over his expression. _Good,_ this is what he wanted. He strode down the stairs riding the man's brother as a meat suit. The look on the hunter's stupid face was priceless, Shiras could feel the pain, taste it on his tongue. He had no intentions of letting up that agony.

"Hello, Bruce." Shiras twisted the brother's lips in a crooked smile, eyes as black as the abyss. "I see you're joining us for family night, how unlike you." It clicked its tongue, shook its head.

"You know, while I was in the pit and clawing my way back out, I had a lot of time to think. I thought about you, and how much I loved our last date.I was having such a good time, and then you went ahead and ruined it all. Typical hunter.” Howard's voice came out in broad coarse streams, eyes rolling skyward in distaste. “So I decided, ya know, since you inconvenienced me, I'm gonna kill all the family you have left. Which apparently, isn't much." Shiras was inches from Bruce now; his mouth twisted maliciously, teeth gleaming sinfully. 

"You're going back to the pit, and I'm gonna find a way to keep you there, you bastard." The hunter gnarled, shoulders squared, hand deep in his left coat pocket. He glanced to his right, his brother's wife a casualty to his hunter lifestyle. If he hadn't got caught up in demons and vampires and witches, Marilyn would still be alive, and Howard wouldn't be a free ride for Shiras. The man fought back choking, focusing his eyes back on Shiras holed up in Howard's body. 

The demon could read the fleeting emotions, and what kind of evil would he be if he didn't try and use this to his advantage. "Oh cmon, stop acting like you even give a shit about this family." Shiras hissed, pacing around condescendingly. "You're the degenerate uncle that shows up on holidays and birthdays with some truck stop gift wrapped in newspaper. No one here liked you; your own brother hated your guts. You're just some washed up drunk and ending your life would be a blessing for you. Howard thought so too." 

Shiras' words rang partially right. Had it been a discovery, Bruce probably would've felt the sting but he knew he was the uncle no one fancied. He didn't crumble, and he didn't flinch, serving only to irritate the demon. 

The whole time it was talking, Bruce was slowly uncapping the vial of holy water in his left pocket. And when Shiras had ceased its verbal assault, Bruce flung his arm sending streams of the blessed water straight into Howard's face. Shiras let out a guttural scream and clutched at his head, feet stumbling backward over each other. Bruce repeatedly swung, again and again, droplets smashing into and burning his brothers skin. Smoke was rising from Howard’s convulsing frame with each hit. The whole house was shaking from the roar. 

Shiras used all his strength to fight against the attack, only having to lay a single hand on Bruce to send him flying across the room with ease. The hunter hit the floor, slid and came to a hard stop, quick to pull himself to wobbly feet. This wasn’t his first demon rodeo, that toss barely tickled. 

Shiras was taking determined strides at Bruce, and as it lunged, the hunter jammed a blade of iron between his brother's ribs. The demon bellowed again, stumbling back from the unanticipated move. In an instance the demon let Howard come forward, and Bruce could see the wild-eyed man looking back at him was his brother now, Shiras retreating in an attempt to throw him off balance, to leave him with lasting damage.  
Howard looked down at the knife still tucked between ribs, blood pumping out slowly, widening the crimson ring.  
"I'm sorry." Bruce had murmured before his expression hardened, and he started the incantation.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus.." 

\--- 

From the closet, you heard penetrating screams, unholy and bone chilling. The walls shuddered under the weight of the voice and between the throaty outcries you could hear something that sounded very close to gibberish. Nothing made sense, your muscles froze you into a ball, eyes leaking rivers into your knees. With the same suddenness that this all started, it stopped. A dense blanket of quiet cloaked the house, it made your stomach stagger even further up your throat until you were certain you were going to be sick. What did the silence mean? Was it entirely over?

Bruce sighed and looked at his sister in law in a lifeless heap on the carpet, and then to his brother laying in a pool of his own blood. "Ah, God." He cursed, hand wiping at his mouth. Guilt filled his chest, fingers gripping his speckled hair anxiously. He had to do a body count. Marilyn and Howard were in an immediate line of sight. But the hunter had to climb the stairs to see Ethan all crumpled like discarded trash, blood still trickling from his nose and mouth, drying around the corners. His eyes were open, frosting but fixed on Bruce unseeingly. “Oh God.” His breathed, voice close to breaking. 

The hunter's ears were ringing. You weren't in sight, and he wasn't sure to be hopeful or panicked. With an absolute sense of urgency, he began calling to you, checking every inch of every room on the top floor starting with your parents’. 

"Y/N! It's Uncle Bruce! Y/N!" He rang out. 

Your eyes shut tight and buried deep in your bony knees. Ethan's words played over and over, flashes of your father's black eyes reminding you that no one could be trusted yet. What if it was that thing again, what if it wanted to eat you? 

Bruce continued to move through the upstairs until he was in your room, still calling your name though his voice was becoming tighter, more hoarse when each room came up empty.

The closet door swung open, and you panicked, flattening against the wall. A sigh of relief cut the quiet house.

"Y/N!" Bruce fished you out of your hiding space, pulling your face flush against his chest as he stooped to your level. "Oh thank god, Y/N you're okay." His fingers smoothed through your hair with comfort and he felt an ounce of guilt dissolve. You were alive; you were okay. He may have gotten the rest of the family killed, but he saved you.

You were young, so trust came quickly and easily, and you clung to your uncle Bruce, who was now a hero in your mind. He calmly picked you up, pushed your head down into his shoulder and began to walk deliberately, words of reassurance falling over you like little leaves. "It's gonna be okay, kiddo. I got you; it's gonna be fine." 

Bruce tried hard to keep your orbs blocked, but you managed to peek and catch sight of the death trail that stretched from the upstairs hallway to the front door. There were glass and wood splinters littered everywhere, crunching under the weight of your uncle as he carried you over the threshold. You looked back one more time, wanting to call out to your mom, or your dad, but your voice strangled. Even then you knew it was no use, and they weren't going to wake up from this. 

You couldn't peel your stinging eyes away from the house, even as Bruce loaded you into the car, even as he pulled away, even when he was miles and miles down the road.

\-----

_Present Day_

Surrounded by dusty shelves that lined yellowing walls, you balanced a sturdy wooden chair on two legs, letting it fall hard against the floor and repeated the action over again. Your finger swiped along the smooth touchpad of the laptop, article after article appearing on the screen. One caught your eye. 

**A Third Family Member Found Dead.**

"Hey, B, I think I may have found our next case." You were dangling your head back in the chair, looking at him through an upside down perspective.

Bruce cocked his head from his perch on the shabby couch, barely looking over his shoulder at you yet signaling you had his attention. His eyes were still trained on the football game coming grainy on a rabbit-eared set, and you weren't even sure he was going to actually to hear anything you had to say. You went on anyway. 

"Uh, so something seems to be targeting a particular bloodline." Your eyes shifted over the words. The articles never gave out the useful details which made it hard to guess whether or not the jobs would be worth your time. This one was no exception. "Seems weird. I think we should check it out at least. Could be nothing, could be something. Plus it's only a town over for once." 

He turned, arm draping back over the couch, eyes fully on his niece engulfed by the bright light of the computer screen. "What else does it say?" 

"Nothing. Died in their sleep. Husband of the first victim claims whoever did this didn't even blink in his direction. Suspect still at large." 

"Ghost? You think this is some revenge thing, think someone's got one on a leash?" Bruce sipped thoughtfully at his beer. 

You shook your head, brows bumping. "I don't know, but whatever it is, it really has it out for this family." 

"Alright then, we'll head up in the morning." He swung back around to the game where his team was now losing. "Goddamnit." He mumbled into the stale air. 

Your lips ghosted upwards as you bounded from the chair. Best to get some sleep before a hunt, usually a good idea to be rested and prepared for uncertainty. You smacked the hat off your uncle as you sped by, headed to your bed. "Night, B-Man." 

"Night, killer." He called out as you rounded the corner.

\----- 

Light pricked at your eyes through partially pulled open curtains. Creaking floor boards a room over let you know Bruce was up too, probably packing a duffle of Arsenal.

"You up, killer?" His gruff voice called out, passing through the barely standing walls.

Willing your body to move, you stretched, awakening your muscles enough to pull you to a seated position at the edge of the bed. 

"Yea, yea." You muttered dismissively, exhaustion still holding you hostage. Another nightmare had kept you from getting any solid sleep, and you thought for sure you'd be used to these nights by now. That day would never come. Rubbing at your eyes, you padded softly to the closet, fishing out an ironed, navy pantsuit. It was funny how far putting on this clown suit could get you. People believed anything these days, too lazy to check into credibility. You slipped into the costume and tied your hair in a neat bun resting high on your head. Knuckles rapped on your door.

"Yea, it's safe." You informed, fingers pinning the last of your hair in place. 

The door creaked as Bruce pushed it open. He was already in his matching attire. His typically disheveled hair was smoothed back with a plethora of hair products, strands crunchy and stiff but held in place -- you could smell them from where you stood. A loaded bag hung off his shoulder. "Ready, kiddo?" 

"Yup." You replied flatly, scooping up the duffle you readied the night before. Bruce's lips ghosted up. You were always so prepared, always one step ahead. It amazed him that you were that way, never knowing just where you got it from because it sure as hell wasn't him. Bruce was drunk and reckless at the best of times, yet somehow he had managed to make it this far. At this point, he attributed his longer life span to you.

"I'm driving." Air rushed passed Bruce as your whirled by, a conviction in your words. If you slowed down, he would protest you behind the wheel so you gusted by, scooping up the keys to the Buick GNX . The older man shook his head as you left him in the dust, a chuckle rolling off his tongue.

\-----

You pulled the car slowly to a stop in front of the medical examiner's office. Both of you hated this part. As steely as you were, this place always gave you the creeps worse than any monster you'd ever killed.  
You tossed your vision back to Bruce in the passenger's seat.

"Rock, paper, scissors?" You challenged.

Your hands flew up, both ready to make a move. A quick countdown from 1 to 3 and Bruce had his fingers split in scissors, and you had decided paper. 

"Crap." Your jaw clenched. "C'mon, best 2 out of 3." 

Bruce slapped your back, and his lips turned up. "Have fun in there, kid." You scowled at him, he straightened. "I'll head over to the husbands, see what he can turn up." 

You slid out of the resting vehicle, Bruce quick to steal your spot, restart the engine and speed off in the direction of his quest. A sigh parted your lips, hand smoothing over your blazer. _Another day, another life._

"Fed's are involved?" The coroner tossed back over her shoulder, heels clicking on the tile as she led you down the sterile white corridor. She didn't let you get a word in, genuinely not caring about your answer. "I've never seen anything like this." 

Your flesh was crawling with every step you took, each one reminding you how much you hated this bleak place. You reached the silver slab where Mrs. Barton-McGinnley lay, tag dangling off a cold blue toe. The coroner's fingers nimbly pulled back the white sheet to reveal a gruesome sight.

The victim's skin was dusky blue, darkest at the crook of her neck and spreading out in beams to the outermost edges of her body. The flesh was missing, or sunken, revealing bits of ripped muscle tissue, and teeth still fixed to the jaw. But besides the obvious signs of decay and the odd shade of blue, there were no other bite marks or scratches. It was hard to look at but even more difficult to look away. 

"Cause of death?" Your eyes flitted back up to the Coroner, trying to look as unshaken as possible.

"I don't know." She grabbed a clipboard, flipping a few pages. "I'm still running tox tests. Best guess is she was poisoned. Except I've never seen someone turn blue." 

You reached for the clipboard with a may-I gesture, and she readily relinquished it to your grip. Your eyes darted across the page as soon as it was in your hand.

"It says she died yesterday." Orbs shot to the heavily eroded victim, back to the D.O.D and then to the doctor who was looking as stumped as ever. "I don't understand. They don't usually look like this a day in." 

The doctor turned her palms up. "Your guess is as good as mine." 

"What about the other victims?" 

She pulled them out from their respective drawers, allowing you to do the work of peeking under the sheets this time. "All the same inflictions. There's nothing in the books that says what could've caused this." 

"Alright. Thanks, doc." You offered a small nod, and she reciprocated the action, disappearing out of the room to leave you with three dead and blue McGinnley's. 

As soon as she was out of sight, you set to work examining. All three of the bodies were free of vamp bites, and all of them still had their hearts. There were no strange markings or symbols. No sulfur, no emf. There was nothing except blue and decay. It left you with zilch, just a sense of absolute confusion. You were setting the sheets back out of respect, a dolefulness in your eyes, when your phone vibrated wildly in your pocket. You turned away from the death and fished the device out of your pocket. 

"Yea?" 

"Anything yet?" A familiar voice questioned. Bruce was driving, the sound of the wind whipping through the open window and you frowned knowing he had one hand off the wheel.

"Nope, just a dead end. No pun intended." You took a cursory glance at the tables behind you, an apologetic look on your face.

He chuckled into the receiver and then leveled his expression. "Husband claims something -- or someone -- just materialized into the room, beelined it straight for his sleeping wife. No sulfur but the bedroom sent the EMF haywire." 

"So a ghost?" The words sounded suddenly foreign. It didn't feel right at all. "What kind of a freaking ghost is this?"

"I don't know, Killer. But Mr. Barton said Mrs. has an aunt still in town. Can only assume she's the next target." He tapped his fingers against the wheel, a plan formulating.

"Bruce." You warned. He wasn't listening, and you knew it. The hunter didn't have to say what he did next because you already understood where he was going and resented it.

"I'm gonna head over there and keep an eye out. You go back to the motel and research. See if we have to burn the bones, or stab it with some ancient tree branch or something."

"Remember all those times you told me not to be stupid? We don't know what kind of creature this is!" You were trying to keep it down, not draw attention to you but your voice was raising and getting harsher with each syllable. 

"So then get back to the room and figure it out." He barked, and then ended the call leaving you huffing to dead air.


	2. Death Whispered A Lullaby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your uncle Bruce makes a stupid decision, and you have to deal with the aftermath. Now you just have to wait until Bobby shows up with the Winchesters to fix things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's going to make an appearance in the next chapter? <3

Bruce pulled up on the opposite side of a weathered two-storey home, gravel crunching and echoing beneath the tires as it rolled to a stop. He threw it into park and studied the house. The siding was yellowing from the years of repeated abuse and hedges in need of a trim followed streamline along the sides of the porch. A few flower pots with their contents parched decorated the small outdoor space. The place was neat but worn, almost indicating that she was a widow.

A few windows remained illuminated, a stark contrast to the blackness that surrounded everything else, and Aunt McGinnley was moving from room to room, doing nothing of particular interest. The street was just as dull and calm. A light wind kicked up some leaves and sent them whirling passed the tires, and that was about the only movement in the entire outdoor area. Bruce's eyes drank in the night, scanned the other houses, the bushes, the trees. Nothing. It wasn’t the kind of still that made him anxious, just the kind that was. 

A sigh passed over his lips and he reclined in the seat, gazing out at the night sky with its pin holes of light, making sure to glance back at the house for potential warning signs every third breath. It was in quiet times like these he could feel the cracks in his chest from the life he lived. Times where he was alone and didn't have you buzzing around him so loud that he couldn't think, where everything came catching up to him. 

He reached into the canvas duffle bag in the back seat and retrieved a flask you had gotten him for his birthday one year, twisting off the lid to take a quick pull of the amber prize inside. The metallic canister lingered under his fingers, the mere touch flooding him with memories of how excited you were to give this to him, his name engraved into its surface. You had saved up every penny you could find to buy it which at the time was an effort since you were a teen without a job. He never questioned how you came up with the funds, but he had an inkling it had something to do with sticky fingers. Even after all these years, it still looked brand new -- a testament to how much this thing, and you, meant to him.

All that he did now was an effort to ease the guilt of turning your life upside down. He found himself always torn between wanting you to be able to protect yourself as a hunt and wanting you to live a normal, monster free life. And he was always paranoid Shiras would come back to take you from him before hanging his head on a wall to make an example out of him.

When a good period had elapsed where nothing went wrong, Bruce decided to call you if for no other reason than to know you had followed his orders and went straight back to the motel.

\--- 

It was a miracle the floor still held up under your relentless pacing. Your feet carved out a steady path around the room, from the two seater table pushed against the wall, passed the particle board dresser, curving around the outdated double beds and back again. You were pouring over some text in your hand, quickly moving and absorbing information at the same time. 

It held nothing useful to your hunt, and as you flipped the page to come to a dead end, you hurled the heavy volume towards a far wall. It crashed and slid to the floor, spine down, and pages splayed open like a flower in bloom.

"Goddamnit!" 

If you couldn't figure out what made this ghost not so run of the mill, Bruce was liable to walk straight to his death, unprepared. Fingers pressed against your closed eyes, flashes of the morgue with its blue decay playing in the darkness. Your stomach tightened. You just had to have faith that iron and rock salt would keep the thing at a safe enough distance until you knew exactly what would do the trick. 

You wanted to burn the bones, but you didn't even know which set to salt and blaze yet. Or if it would work. It was all so frustrating, made your teeth clench and your mind swim with the worst possible outcomes. You slumped down into one of the chairs at the small table, fingers flipping open the latched laptop. If you couldn't find any answers in the old volumes, maybe you could find a family tree. If the thing was attacking the McGinnley's, their bloodline probably held some clues.   
Sleep pricked at your eyes as you scanned the records, nothing stood out, nothing connected save for being of the same relation. 

A rattle against the wooden table pulled your eyes downward, lit display reading Bruce. You snatched the phone up, hastily placing it to your ear. 

"Yea?" You could barely hold back the panic in your tone. 

A familiar laugh rang through the receiver. "Anything yet, kiddo?" 

Your sighs of relief echoed off the walls, and then your lips turned down from the disappointment of yourself. "No, not yet. I'm looking to see if there's any way to locate these bones." 

"Well, the husband described the thing looking vintage so you might have to dig deep." Bruce sounded distracted, his words trailing off to soft whispers. Suddenly a feeling of foreboding hit you like a runaway train, dragging you across the tracks. "Keep looking, Killer, I gotta go." 

"Bruce? Bruce! Goddamnit!" You slammed your phone down, applying the same frustrations to your laptop. Your uncle was storming into danger, you knew it. You could tell by his preoccupied tones, the same ones you were otherwise used to by now from previous hunts and stupid decisions. There was no way you were staying back, barked orders or not. 

You ripped your jacket from the back of the chair, whirling out of the jaundiced-looking motel room with a duffle bag hanging from your shoulder and banging into your side. Since Bruce had taken the car, you had to steal one. The night worked as your cover, a perfect watch dog as you ducked between vehicles. Luck graced you because the first hunk of metal you tried started up and purred beautifully. Your bag slammed into the back seat as you sped from the parking lot, tires squealing well into the night. 

\--- 

Widowed Aunt McGinnley turned the last light off in the house; the entire thing cloaked in shadow now. The rest of the block had turned in too, leaving Bruce in the car with only streetlight cover and the dim glare of the radio display. His ears pricked, eyes watchful. So far, nothing had shown up but to be fair, it had only been a few minutes.

He looked back at the sky before he heard a scream that jolted his heart. That was the sound he had been anticipating. Without any thought, he was flashing from the car with any weapon he could fit on himself and bolted up the stairs to the front door. The knob made a familiar noise of a door locked. Of course, it couldn't just be easy, but most people didn't expect a hunter to come in and save them from some mysterious creature. So why would anyone ever leave the door unlocked for him? 

Y/N had tried to teach him better methods of breaking and entering, but he just opted for a boot to the lock. A few tries and the door was swinging open, knob leaving a hole in the plaster as it slammed into it. Having watched McGinnley from outside, Bruce knew exactly where to head, bounding up the stairs two at a time and heading straight for her bedroom. Adrenaline took control of his system, helping him forget how winded he was as he bolted for the screaming woman. 

He skidded in the doorway, the thing that was hovering over the wailing woman spinning abruptly to face Bruce. "Yeah that's right, come over here, come play with me. I'm more fun," he coaxed the bony creature.

It had the structure of a woman, and it was covered in rot and filth. A thick robe ripped at all the seams draped over the figure, pulling her feeble frame downwards into a hunch. Her dark rimmed eyes felt like they were settling into him as it moved across the floor in his direction. The shotgun rang in his ears as he unloaded it, the salt doing little to slow it down. He was reaching for holy water, a dagger, anything when the dirty old woman reached him. She reached for him, and they wrestled, but even for an old rotten looking hag, she had an immense strength that overpowered Bruce and brought him crumpling to his knees. 

At that moment, he wished to God he had brought you along. 

\---

Abandoning research was probably a bad idea, you needed to know what he was up against and what you were rushing to save him from potentially but Uncle Bruce was about to put himself in harm's way, and you had to be by his side to make sure he lived another day. Despite your Uncle being skillful, you doubted his ability to make sensible decisions. And you questioned it for good reason because you had seen his rash behavior first hand. He could get himself out of trouble, but it was him getting into it in the first place that agitated you. 

It took you record time to hotwire a car and race to where he said he'd be. When things were okay, and Bruce was safe, and that thing killed, you'd make sure to let him know that you broke his record. That would be a good laugh, and you clung to the idea because it meant everything was going to be okay in the end. It was unexpected that you hadn't gotten pulled over at the speed of which you flew over the pavement. Maybe luck was on your side, and Uncle Bruce was alright, everything was going to end happily. 

Your stomach gave you a different opinion, though. It felt like it was inching up your throat to crawl out of your mouth when you turned the corner to see the Buick. It sat desolate, opposite side of the house. Not a single sign of your gray-haired Uncle. 

"Oh, no," you breathed. As you pulled up alongside the house, your anxieties were becoming actual. The door to the dwelling was suspiciously wide open, revealing nothing but a cavern of blackness, and there was no presence of life in any of the windows. With a loaded shotgun kept between steady hands, you rushed from the car, up the steps, and into the dark.

It felt like hands had clamped over your ears, stunning you. The only thing you could hear was the distant sound of a clock ticking away and the throbbing of a pulse in your temples. The living room was free of Bruce and the creature, and the rest of the rooms on the first floor came up clean too. Though you were thankful for the absence of the ghost, you were growing ill with the idea that your Uncle still hadn't turned up. 

Lean legs hastily carried you up the stairs, the gun still pointed at the air, ready to blast away any apparitions that even thought of making an attempt to turn you blue. At the top, there were three ways to go: straight into what seemed to be a bathroom or left and right, both with doors at the end of the painted white hallways. A cough, a wet, raspy hem echoed from the left. It forcefully snapped your head in that direction, your body quick to follow and suddenly you were tearing full speed towards the open door.

You came to a crashing stop in the doorway. Everything suspended all at once. There he was, sinking into the floor, that same goddamn dark blue color on his neck. Lines were snaking up and over his stubbled jaw as he writhed, clearly in pain. It felt like the house had just collapsed on top of you, and the weight was too much. Your knees gave, an absolute sense of despair drenching you to your soul.

He caught sight of you and coughed again, trembling hand reaching for you. "No, no, no, no," you pleaded with fate, crawling like a wild animal towards your uncle. He was weak and shaking when you pulled him into your arms, his eyes rolled around a bit in his head but then you could see him using all his strength to focus. He was trying not to die, not for himself but for you. Hot torrential tears poured from your eyes, "No, no, you can't do this. Bruce, stay with me."

Your uncle shook in your arms, body contorting and arching in painful ways but you held on tight and tried your hardest to wish the situation away. It was happening again, you were that scared little girl in the closet only this time it wasn't a closet, and you were in the front of the audience. 

\-----

The pain was unbearable. His body was trying to fight against it but Bruce knew he was dying. Skin around his jawline started to peel, shedding like a snake and his lungs were beginning to be suffocated by his own fluid, so he needed to make this quick. He didn't have much power, but he was pouring every last drop of it into what he had to say next. The pain was immense, it made thinking very arduous, but he knew he had to get the sentence out at least. 

"Call Bobby."

It came out so rough and wet, it was low as a whisper but still rang loud and clear. Bruce tried to reach for his pocket, his hand too weak and shaky to move very far. What he was saying dawned on you, and to save him the energy, you quickly snatched the device out of his pocket, cycling through the contacts. Bobby was only two in. 

A gruff voice answered the phone. 

"Bobby? It's Bruce's niece, Y/N." You started off as calm as you could though your words were still coming out quick and breathy. "Please, we need your help." You drowned back tears long enough to give him your address then he hung up, and the reservoir broke. Streams rushed your cheeks as you scooped up your quickly decaying uncle and rocked him back and forth.

"I got you, you're gonna be okay." You repeated over and over, images of him carrying you out of the house that ominous night playing in reels behind your eyes as you sobbed into his shallow breathing chest. 

He was trying to look at you, but an invisible force kept rolling his eyes back into his head. His lungs pushed out another cough, this time spreading blood in little droplets on his chin and chest. This was it. There wasn't any faith left. Whether Bobby got there or not, Bruce was going to die. The best he could hope for was that his friend helped his niece track this thing, so no one else died. The fight against the anguish was becoming too hard to control, and he no longer had the upper hand. Life was slowly draining from him, bit by bit. 

"No, no, no, no..." you were repeating until your weepings quietly took over your throat. Bruce writhed in your arms, his wet hacks and your heaving sobs resounding off the darkness. You stroked his face gently, the smell metallic smell of blood and rotting flesh filling your nostrils. 

"Just stay with me, he'll be here soon. Stay with me, please."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Feel free to comment and leave kudos of you enjoyed it!（*＾3＾）
> 
> **It's Sam and Dean btw ;)**


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